


On the Use of Intercourse as a Cure for Ennui

by Fyliwion



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Crossover, Gray is more than a Bit Not Good, Green Carnations, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Means to an End, Not the safest sex, One Night Stand, Rough Sex, Sex as a cure for boredom, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is not not a blushing flower, Victorian Attitudes, hints of bdsm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 13:16:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1859397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyliwion/pseuds/Fyliwion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In the newcomer’s face Holmes could see the same ennui that was a constant plague against his senses. The man was compelled to come for the same reasons as Sherlock himself. There was no interest, no true meaning behind the night out. Here was a man who was seeking nothing but a way to pass the never ending hours in a constant boring cycle of satisfying his transport and quieting a constantly moving mind.</i>
</p><p><i>It was evident in every movement, tilt of his head, lilt of his voice, and the shadow that lay behind his eyes. </i> </p><p>Or the time Holmes met Dorian Gray, was thoroughly buggered, and found a way to his doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Use of Intercourse as a Cure for Ennui

Boredom was a dangerous thing, constant and an ever daunting companion that never boded well for the inhabitants of 221 B. It was a lurking, insatiable idea that all too frequently reared its head to haunt Holmes- and left John Watson scrambling for a ledge to bring himself and his partner back upon once more.

The week had passed without case, and then another. Holmes lay emotionless- the violin played to pieces… the cold cases solved some time ago. A second week had led to a brain fever that kept Holmes trapped in his bed and hiding in the dark like a nocturnal creature—rarely touching his food and barely drinking enough to sustain life if Watson was being honest.

The fifth week, Watson provided him with an ultimatum.

Go out or a holiday in the country side.

The weather was turning for the worse. Summer had come upon the city, bringing with it the rancid smells and sickness that came upon London with the impenetrable heat. It was never a good time for his companion, and here was still laid in bed, sheets tangled in his legs while a gleam of sweat remained on his brow.

To make matters worse Holmes had begun turning to his cocaine on too regular of a basis. Not occasionally but daily (or twice daily when Watson caught him.)

 Watson had seen the effects that ill nutrition and Sherlock’s catatonic state had wrought upon his body. Should the man continue on the same path he currently was, it would not be beneficial for those involved. If that meant he needed some deranged form of entertainment, than by god so be it.

Frankly, Watson would have been relieved to watch their wallpaper shred under bullets, if it only meant the man would _move._

But as the heat thickened, and the threat of a more serious problem loomed, Watson would see to it they were on a train to Devonshire or a similarly sheep ridden countryside that may _bore_ Holmes, but keep away the worst of the ills that might soon plague them.

For Holmes it was a simple enough matter, boredom was a misery. He detested the stagnation and the mire that his mind had become; however, the impending threat of the countryside was far more dangerous to his mind.

It took time to pull himself from his revere and allow his thoughts to pull him from his mind to return once more to the monotony that was the world. He dressed slowly; debating which would be the best course of actions to pursue that might seek to appease the Doctor’s overwrought sensibilities.

Watson said he had to move, not that his choice of action had to be something of which he _approved._ There were certain clubs that could provide nearly as much of a thrill as the cocaine, and whilst Watson would not be attending them with him (nor would he be so errant to invite the morally astute man) there was a certain amount of petulance at the knowledge it was hardly the medicine Watson had wished upon him.

He was perfectly able to sulk without the assistance of his bedroom.

On the other hand, the doctor was so elated to simply to see Holmes outside of dressing gown, the detective suspected he might find his currently degeneration the lesser of the evils.

He almost smiled at such a thought. Petty revenge should be above such a mind as his… but there were occasions when he could not help but gloat.

One of his best then, and a top hat as well he should think.

 

* * *

 

He chose to walk an additional block to ensure the doctor’s curiosity would not pique and cause him to follow. Unlikely given Watson had agreed for cards at his own club with Michael Stamford which would keep him entertained and should have him home late enough to not dwell on Sherlock’s own return time.

Here it was time to take another turn. A bouquet of flower to buy, all of them artisanal dyed. It was an ostentatious action, but Holmes had one purpose for the evening and he had every intention of fulfilling it.

He plucked one stem from the arrangement upon reaching the alley he needed, and left the rest for some other soul to find. No need to be obvious when he purchased them. One would attract attention while the boquet would not. His face was known and best not to run the risk of questions on the street.

“Ah Mr. H… it has been some time” his coat taken as soon as he stepped inside the discrete unmarked entrance and into the plush carpets and ornate hall that lay inside its walls.

It had been nearly a year since he had attended an evening at The Club, and he’d nearly forgotten what it would be like with its glamour and ode to vice. Of the late he had found it unappealing to his appetite, and would rather brood in his own apartments.  He had found his own needs far removed, and his transport sedated by the use of his own hand accompanied by the sound of Watson in the other room.

Remarkable really, the first time he’d come listening to nothing but the soft steps of the good doctor. His erection standing to attention like a school boy’s as he heard the man hum a tune to himself, and then the soft steps and a faint scratching of a pen, while Holmes slipped his hand over the throbbing issue and came with the image of Watson above him- taking him like one of his mistresses over the top of his writing desk.

A shiver ran through him as he pushed the thought away. There would be no Watson now or at any other time. Best to find a companion for the evening to appease his transport’s needs. A quick fuck and he could be on his way, and not need to return again until the urgings became too much.

As it was, he needed nothing more than someone to provide a brief moment of time to stop the constant sound of his brain. Someone not entirely dull that could take him in a side room, and shut off the constant itching in his mind—a buggering could fill the place of his cocaine for his night and given he chose someone not completely imbecilic perhaps the lasting ache would be enough to last a day or so until he could focus on another case.

Looking around the main room he found the notion slowly becoming unlikely. Pretty boys and a handful of overwrought aristocrats who had neither temperament nor physicality to provide what he needed. He could wait; however, given it seemed to be his only viable plan left given London seemed to have a sudden shortage of murder. 

So it was an hour passed and Holmes began to give up the endeavor entirely.

He had forgotten how much he disliked men. Women were worse of course, frivolous fancies and ridiculous notions of what entailed with a proper courting. Even had he not found a woman’s company a constant tedium, he had never found himself able to rise to a woman’s soft curves and gentle smiles. There was no attraction to be found in those realms.

Yet while his attraction to men remained, Watson had caused him to forget how little the rest of his sex’s brain continued to be. That _might_ be acceptable, with the right partner. Someone who could order him to strip… a man recently returned from India or Africa, who could take Holmes until he was no longer able to walk. A handsome face and a firm hand could be just as stimulating challenges as intellect should it allow him to forget any notion of control for even just a moment.

Given his flat mate, all the better if the tan lines were distinct and he had a mustache that he could brush across his neck and allow him to pretend for the evening. After all, they were all pretending to some degree when it came to that establishment.

Yet tonight the only men in uniform were lacking the faculties to provide even the most basic of conversations. He could stand to be buggered by an idiot, but not a halfwit.

It made him wonder if he should have found his company in one of the Parks instead, hardly an officer but a young private would have at least provided a puzzle to his senses.

He was weighing the option of leaving for the evening given his darkening mood with every passing moment when another gentlemen walked in and caught his attention.

In the newcomer’s face Holmes could see the same ennui that was a constant plague against his senses. The man was compelled to come for the same reasons as Sherlock himself. There was no interest, no true meaning behind the night out. Here was a man who was seeking nothing but a way to pass the never ending hours in a constant boring cycle of satisfying his transport and quieting a constantly moving mind.

It was evident in every movement, tilt of his head, lilt of his voice, and the shadow that lay behind his eyes.

It should also have been impossible for anyone that young.

The young man was beautiful, softer than was normally Holmes’ tastes. Soft black curls, striking blue eyes and milky white skin that shown under the gaslights. More unusual that none of these were marred by a single imperfection. No marks to show where he’d been, no callouses to show talents- for all his beauty Holmes may as well have been staring at a completely blank page.

The newcomer caught his gaze and made a straight line towards him. “Mr. Holmes,” there was a hint of a smile on the man’s lips he approached, “I have heard much about your adventures. You will forgive me my impertinence but I had rather thought the evening to be a loss until I saw you.”

Holmes felt a similar smirk slip upon his lips, “As did I” he murmured.

How strange this man. He was nearly a reflection of the detectives person had he lived in a different time and place. It was to his benefit, Holmes realized, that he had never been a terrible vain man. He prided his appearance and cleanliness, but he had never been one to dwell on a mirror—rather his interest had always lain within the mind.

Here was a man who exhumed a sense of vanity and pride that was exhausting. Yet there was a brilliance behind the glass eyes, and his flawless skin that sought to age him as no more than eighteen was betrayed his wit and humor. He betrayed himself in the knowledge that he let slip from his lips and the mannerisms that spoke of a man beyond his years.

Another brandy was brought to his hand, and so began the discussions of cases and current events. The man had read his theorem on tobacco ash, whilst he mocked Holmes’ completely obliteration of any knowledge concerning artwork or romantics (whatever would be the point unless one was stolen- and who should bother to steal any post-Raphaelite nonsense).

As they spoke Holmes categorized the ever growing enigma:

Dorian Gray was, if nothing else, dangerous.

It enthralled him.

Nothing would come of a relationship, even a cordial one that had nothing to do with sex. That had never been the point of the outing anyway, but Holmes knew immediately they were both far too intelligent to bother with the trap that would spring upon them. The man had obviously left a trail of broken souls behind him, and whilst Holmes fought to understand how when so little was left to read—it left Holmes with the surety that Gray was not someone a person should ever meet more than once.

But it would be the blissful distraction.

He was surprised at how oblique Gray was on his advances. Wooing first with brandy and conversation, later with a subtle hand on his cuff and warm breath along his neck—lips barely brushing as he whispered his own deductions (nearly all correct at that) in Sherlock’s ear.

It was Gray who led them to the rooms kept upstairs for such purposes, and Gray who turned once the door had shut and candle lit to say:

“You are, of course, in love with your flat mate. I trust he is unaware of your proclivities?”

Holmes froze, rarely caught unawares even as he was pouring them both another nightcap. “I hardly think it is of your concern” he managed shortly. He had not come to discuss Watson, even with such an enigma as stood before him.

“Bah. It is obvious with anyone of our bent that you have such inklings towards him. His newest case alone spoke of your obvious devotion to his person. Frankly I find it a wonder the man does not see it for himself, but then if he does seem to be a rather… simple man.” Gray had stepped forward and slipped a hand along the back of Holmes’ trousers. The detective tried to pull away given the blossoming anger in his chest, but the hand pulled at the edge and slipped down inside and then inside his pants causing instead for him to step forward.

“You know nothing Dorian. He is a remarkable man. Hardly _simple_ \- but rather less inclined to such complications that men such as us so frequently put ourselves.”

Gray laughed, his free hand sliding down the side of Holmes’ trousers to his inseam- brushing Holmes’ inner thigh with his nails as Holmes’ cock betrayed him with interest.

“I did not mean to offend. It is just a shame that you ply your devotions upon a man who cannot appreciate the full marvel of what you are” he leaned forward slowly nipping at Holmes’ earlobe. “Intellect and sensuality- both there for the taking for the man that dares. Why he’s never seen you like this has he? Wanton and wanting? Laid out for the taking by any man with a strong enough demeanor to bend you over and take you apart?” He slipped his fingers in Holmes’ arse as the detective thrust forward finding Gray’s long fingers wrap around his prick through the fabric. He felt a shiver float over him realizing they were both still fully dressed.

“Whilst you Mr. Gray, seem to find interest in everything and nothing all at once. I admit it shall be a long puzzle in unravelling how a man your age can appear with such an angelic face” he leaned back push the man’s fingers deeper inside him even as he caused Gray to laugh.

“Some may find that as an insult.”

“You know better.”

“I do.”

He was quiet as Gray pushed into the edge of the table slowly thrusting a second finger, and then a third to scissor him open. The front hand had moved from soft caresses to undoing the front of the detectives’ trousers. This was, new, most of his past experiences had been little more than a quick fuck to silence the never ending chatter of his mind.

Yet Gray had no inclination to seek him out again. A second time would be hardly as stimulating. While his intellect held the man intrigued for now neither of them could sustain themselves on solely that. They were both too similar and too far apart all at once.

Yet now he could feel his brain slowly whirring as the man’s fingers wrenching him apart inside. Slowly splitting him in two as the free hand finally freed his cock to pump him from the front. He let out a groan as the long dexterous fingers teased the spot inside but refused to allow for that final pleasure… he was surprised when he let out a whimper when the fingers were removed, and he turned around to see the man slipping off his waistcoat slowly and lazily with a grin.

“We have all night Sherlock. I should think it’s too early for that” he said chuckling, but allowed for Holmes’ to step forward and drag off the shirt from his shoulders.

He was surprised how willingly pliant the man was, or the way he listened to the linen rip as the anger at his earlier words and the weeks of solitude and boredom finally arose to the top. He worked on the trousers even as the man’s deft fingers worked steadily on his buttons… and Holmes hissed as tight fingers slipped over his nipples before shoving him upon the bed, and the other man’s fingers slipping below once more, teeth running along his jugular.

Another grown as Holmes thrust into the thin hips before being rewarded with a quick slap causing him to stop. New data then... a strike of violence in the both of them. He’d never had such a pretty face wrought such control over him.

Unclothed simply furthered to confirm what Sherlock had gauged earlier. There was not a line, not a scar, or even so much as a birthmark to show where the man had been. There was nothing to even give away that he had ever embarked upon intercourse, if it hadn’t been for the way his cock leapt to attention, and his own hands spoke of more experience than Holmes could ever have boast knowing.

With the same puzzling look, Gray leaned over him to stroke the handful of scars that littered the detective’s hardened body.

“Fascinating”

His voice almost holding the same lilt as John’s, and for a moment made the detective so overwhelmed with emotion it wasn’t until Gray laughed he was pulled back to the earth.

The man slipped against him, bringing his mouth to his ear, tongue running over the edge before whispering with a hot breath, “ _Call his name when you climax_ _”_

Holmes froze even as nails dragged across his back. His mind sprung to life as he grabbed the man’s hips to stop them thrusting against him, “It is not your place to say such things” he ground out.

“I shall not think it impropriations. I would find it… _interesting_ if you must know. Imagine the novelty! The opportunity of being the great Sherlock Holmes’ partner for one night.” he licked his lips before leaning upward to nip at Holmes’ lips, the detective grudgingly opening them and surprised at the way the kiss turned gentle. "To fuck the great detective till he begs for more and screams his Boswell's name...."

“I… I should not-“

Gray met his eyes, “I think the time for should nots is quite passed.”

Holmes was silent, shivering under the soft caresses that Gray’s hands had turned to.

“Call his name Holmes. You would anyway I should think”

Holmes’ eyes flashed, even as he realized the truth behind the words.

So rare for anyone to read him so acutely except his brother.

“Perhaps”

Sherlock reached for Gray’s hand and slipped the fingers between his lips. Sucking slowly and luxuriously he kept his eyes trained on the man’s face. Sherlock could feel Gray’s erection twitching at the realization that it was the same hand Holmes had fucked himself with moments earlier, the taste of himself still on his fingers.

Here he was Gray’s turn to surprise, as he removed his hand to turn Holmes over. The man’s kisses lowered down his back gently, over his curvatures and down to the top of his arse. Then a swipe of the tongue, lower and lower—the dripping fingers entering first and then….

“ _Mon Dieu_ _”_ whispered Holmes.

A chuckle, the brush of air from his exposed hole, and then a soft seeking tongue again—wetting and licking and causing Holmes to squirm under the firm hold the man had on him.

By the time the tongue removed itself, and was replaced by the hard force of the man’s member he was already letting out a soft cry. He thrust back, another soft slap upon his already aching arse and the soft words “ _Patience love_ _”_ until finally, _finally_ he felt Gray sink into him.

The thrusts were soft and firm, in the current position it could be anyone, and Holmes’ mind so blissfully silent, quiet as the soft hand caressed his side and the sharp thrusts grew faster and harder. Lovemaking and fucking going hand in hand as the thrusts drove him further into the bed.

“ _Say it,_ _”_ came the sharp voice just as Holmes tattered on the edge.

“Watson-- _John_! Oh _Mon Dieu_ _… mon amour_ _… Jean_ _…”_ he bit the pillow to keep down another cry even as he felt the man come inside him.

 

* * *

 

  The cigarette lit up the darkened room. How rare it was for Holmes to remain once the deed was done. He suspected Gray knew, even if the man did not deign to recognize it as such.

“Your own deductions are surprisingly acute, as such you should know then that it would be best we should not further this acquaintance” said Holmes as he leaned over to steal the fag from Gray’s lips and inhale a deep puff of his own.

“Obvious. I had a marvelous night, I should see no reason to mar it with such idle fancies that something as mundane as a relationship would muddle. I simple do not do them, and you are already in one—two seems rather redundant.”

“Indeed.”

It was a companionable silence and then, “You should speak to your Watson. I think you may find him more amiable than you presume. There have been at least two of his narratives that I have rather thought were unfairly able to be printed—if I may. The undisguised romantics is nearly nauseating, and I have oft’ thought that without your connections to the Yard you should both be held in rather questionable circumstances given your position as a rather ‘Solitary Bachelor.’ Few men would willingly regale how they seek the bed of their friend rather than a wife.”

Holmes paused and then laughed, blowing smoke into the air, “My dear sir… you do have a point.”

Gray smirked, “I am rarely entirely wrong- although personal judgments where matters of the heart lie are another matter.”

“Have you a heart?”

“My dear man, would you know… I am not entirely sure.”

 

* * *

 

He slipped into Baker Street near noon. His hair and features returned to their previous impeccability and coat and tie once more on. It was surprising Watson had not gone out himself since returning early from his games. Indeed the man was sipping tea and biscuits over a manuscript upon catching Holmes slipping into their sitting room.

  
His thoughts were still on the matters before as he slipped off his ties and toss his coat and waistcoat to the side. He ignored John's pleasantries... worried of his own reactions should he garner the man the attention he deserved.  
  
He had leaned back, mind drifting as he warred with the emotions turning in his stomach when something Watson said caught his attention.  
  
 "Yes Watson?”

 Watson cleared his throat, "I had been saying that while I am pleased to see you have recovered I had rather hoped you would find a better distraction than something as mundane as a brothel."  
  
 It took Sherlock a moment to compose himself. He had been fastidious in assuring there was nothing out of place. The other details that remained Watson should never have been so keen to see. What then?  
  
 Watson looked at him drily and rubbed his own neck consciously. Oh.... of course. How could he have forgotten? They had been more than covered by the layers his clothes provided but as he unbuttoned his collar they revealed themselves.  
  
 Gray had been fond of marking, the possessive streak that said he had claimed his partners for his own. Ridiculous really... another sign of the man’s insatiable vanity but unsurprisingly another item that had drawn Holmes too him.  
  
 After all.... there was a danger in walking London with the marks of another man upon you.   
   
“Watson you are forever making assumptions without examining the facts” he said languidly. Why should it matter whom he had slept with. Watson was no blushing virgin, and while he never paid he never had an empty bed when he did not wish it.  
  
 Yet here was a dark gleam in the doctor’s eye. A question that lingered in his face.  
  
It should seem obvious really.... the signs were there. The size and shape of the bites were hardly a woman's and furthermore he reeked of the floral perfumes that the other man had been fond of- still unquestionable masculine combined with the fading scent of tobacco.   
   
  But no, Watson only ever saw what was in front of him and the easiest assumption to make.

"What in the blazes is that supposed to mean Holmes!?"

He ignored the Doctor continuing instead with the paper.

"Holmes?"

He dare not look up for to give himself away.  
   
  He did not expect the paper to be shoved down by a rather irate man.  
   
“Have you broken some woman’s heart instead? Frankly Holmes, I thought this rather beyond your spectrum.... I have not known you to seek such comfort and would have never presumed as much without the evidence to the contrary. As for my own skills of deduction—while they may not be on the level of a pig-headed detective I know I daresay I can judge a man’s trousers well enough even without the frequency you reference them, and tell a professional mark when left so vividly on your skin. Those were made by no blushing flower, nor any gentlewoman.”  
   
  Interesting....

“No. No gentlewoman" he said slipping a small secretive smirk.

Watson grimaced.

"My dear Watson,  please enlighten me upon which upsets you more… the idea that I spent the night with a whore, or that you only realized now that I function the same as any other individual where matters of the bedroom lie?”  
   
  There was faint colouring in the Doctor’s face, but the years in the military kept him standing his ground. “Please God tell me you at least were safe about the matter.”  
   
  Holmes snorted indignantly “I am many things John, but I am not an idiot.”  
   
  He looked up at the ceiling expecting the man to leave, but looked up when no footsteps were forth coming. He could see John’s hand flex, still in a fist holding the paper. He seemed torn, “Holmes why must you…”  
   
  He’d had enough. The night had been pleasant but there had been enough thoughts that needed to be sorted without the cause of his problems to be buzzing distractedly in front of him.

How could the man not see what was right before his eyes? How rare was it that Holmes risked to spend the night in another’s bed, or willingly greeted anyone upon the morning? He’d woken alone to see Dorian across from him with a bottle of champagne and a light breakfast.

How willing had Holmes been to slip out of the bed into a dressing gown, to slowly slide onto the fully dressed man and pluck at his trousers? To slip to the floor, letting his tongue ruin the front of the pants, working open the buttons, and take the man’s member into his lips?

To feel his own hair pulled brutishly, to have his lips fucked over the luxurious breakfast, and to have him pushed into the floor.

To be fucked over the remnants of a breakfast table before he’d even begun?

Another hour spent to reapply his garments, to wipe the residue from his lips, and to feel another man dress him for the day? Hands thay sought crevices of his body he should never thought existed?

Yet Watson wished to _presume_ upon what Holmes’ had done? Thinking that Holmes had simply gone to bugger a common whore, when it was he who had been fucked inside and out.

And enjoyed it.

 “The whore houses in Limehouse are not of my appetite John. Where you so covertly mention the state of my trousers you fail entirely to look at the state if my knees. Leave me to my own proclivities and be thankful it was that and not another dose of the cocaine you so abhor. I assure that I will endeavor to see mine do not disturb you in the future—which is more than I can say when your own vices leaves you without the rent on more than-“  
   
He had not expected the colour to drain from Watson’s face, nor the way he dropped the paper. Nor had he expected a hand to land next to his head and a furious Captain Watson grabbing his wrist in a vice, "What did you say!?”  
   
  “Watson I-“  
   
“Plainly Holmes”  
   
Fear coursed through him suddenly, “It doesn’t matter Watson. Ignore what I-“

“Say. It.”  
   
 He was humiliated as his slowly hardening erection grew at the same words that had caused him to climax the night before. How well Gray had emulated the nuances of John’s voice without ever meeting the man.

He looked away, unable to meet the fire in Watson’s gaze, “Men. Sodomite…. Or rather catamite. You’ll find I prefer to buggered rather than the other way around.”  
   
He risked a glance and felt his chest clench at the pain that crossed the man’s face, and his heart sank from the cry from Watson’s lips—

He started to pull away, to run from the scene of the crime, but did not expect the sudden onslaught of a kiss that was nothing like those from the night before.

In this there was no gentleness, no soft love making or companionship. Here there was a fierce taking as Watson slipped his tongue between Holmes’ teeth, slipping Holmes’ legs between his to straddle him. Holmes’ could feel the burgeoning erection press against his thigh, as Watson’s free hand grabbed his lapel to pull his lips in such a way Holmes could have escaped even should he have wished it.  
  
When at least they broke for air he stared wide eyed at the still burning soldier before him (no doctor, there was nothing soft about this man).

“Watson you-“  
   
“You madman. You utter imbacile. See but not observe my arse!? You never thought, never even considered that _perhaps_ I would be conciliatory towards such an advance? Always showing off your intellect and never once using it to _assess_ the situation?”  
   
It bruised the detective’s ego and could not go without justification, even if he would rather have slid his hand along the good man’s arse and make him shut up, “You married! You will flirt with any person with breasts and a smile. Watson I cannot make a deduction without the proper da-“  
  
 He was cut off when properly straddled by the man, and suddenly found his wrists pinned above his head, “Military Holmes. Overseas without a wife, or as much as a thought of one. I should think it is difficult to earn a reputation for three continents when I only saw grandmothers and children on one of them.”  
   
His eyes danced in realization, “Well… you always did have peculiar tastes my dear frie-“

Sherlock was cut off by a sharp kiss, ending with a nip on his lip in reprimand.

“When I had so many handsome gentlemen willing to accompany a Captain to his quarters? I should think not.” He gave a small thrust causing an illicit groan to escape Sherlock’s lips.

“Watson.”

 “I trust this...individual... was not expecting you again?”

 Jealousy then. It explained John’s initial behavior, and the warring emotions he saw behind his eyes. The edges of it in Watson’s voice caused a tightness in his chest and a warmth to flood through him.  
   
“No. We agreed it would be for the best were we to part ways. Our reasons were not dissimilar for our excursions as we both suffer bouts of ennui. It was a thrill for an evening, nothing more.”  
   
“Mmm. Good.” Watson brought his lips down to one of the marks, Holmes jerked at the sudden brush of teeth that sunk into the tender flesh. He whimpered as the slow combination of pain and pleasure ran through his body as it was replaced by the soft strokes of his tongue, and a slow suck that caused the detective to writhe under Watson’s administrations.  
   
 “If Mrs. Hudson-“  
   
A slow chuckle as he lifted his mouth away to brush his ear in a whisper, “Has left for the shopping my dear. Which you would know if you retained any of your wits…” his eyes danced as he saw the realization in Holmes’ eyes at missing such a simple detail.  
   
 “ The milk bottles.”  
   
 “Just so.”

Watson let go to bury his fingers through a few of the errant locks that had escaped Holmes’ careful work, “Do you know? I think I should go mad if you had been with a woman.”

“When I have managed my own martyrdom so carefully?”

Watson moved his second hand along Sherlock’s arm, down his side, and playing just under the waist band of his trousers, “How should I have? You walk in the door with every sign written that you have been taken to bed. Worse you lounge on the chaise, indecent in such a way that simply begged to be taken back to the sheets and leaving your collar undone to show the world where you’ve been” he lowered his lips to nip at another of the marks. “All those times in the baths or those night after a case when you collapse without a thought of what you wear or who your bed fellow is… My dear man those were bad enough. But like this? Wanton and ready for the taking, with your lips still swollen from kisses that were not mine? Unknowing that I should ever be allowed to take them for my own? My dearest Holmes I am not sure I could have kept my wits long enough before you would have been compelled to bring me to trial for sexual perversion.”  
   
“Mmm there would be much irony should something as innocent as lovemaking see us behind bars, after such bouts of law breaking we have shared. And here I thought it would be And here I thought it would be _you_ that saw me sentenced for hard labor.”  
   
 “Never” Watson hissed as he thrust his hips again, causing their pricks to brush and causing another wave of ecstasy to run through the detective. “I have wanted you since you damn well took my watch and told me my life story through a set of pawn marks.”

He ran his thumb over the detective’s lips, “These damn things, plush and enough to put any maiden’s to shame and there you are spouting a narrative to outdo any man’s intellect. Like seeing Adonis and realizing you should think to touch.”

Sherlock bent forward his breath hovering over Watson’s lips, “John” he whispered.  
   
 The soft sound echoing from the doctor’s lips made Holmes grin, “Again” said the doctor almost imperceptibly.  
   
 _“_ _Mon Coeur_ _…_ _._ _”_  
  
 “Again.”

 _“_ _Mon Dieu, mon amour, mon_ _…_ _. mon_ _…_ _._ _”_

 _“_ _John._ _”_  


 

**Author's Note:**

> It should be noted that my Dorian Gray is influenced by many sources. While this one does mostly follow that of the uncensored novelette, please be away that I no doubt incorporated the thousand other versions that have become ingrained into my mind. The movie versions, League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, Penny Dreadful-- if your a purist I apologize, but I am afraid I have too many other sources that likely slipped into the writing of him.


End file.
